


The Final Note

by LittleObsessions



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Episode: s05e10 Counterpoint, F/M, collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 17:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11189874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleObsessions/pseuds/LittleObsessions
Summary: Janeway. Kashyk and angst. A dark combination.A follow up to JHelen's 'What Happens Next'. She let me go with it, and for that I am eternally grateful.





	The Final Note

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Helen8462](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helen8462/gifts).



> Part of the Counterpoint vignettes. Inspired by Helen8462's brilliant ‘What Happens Next’. Thank you to Helen for letting me borrow from her wonderful story. And always to the imitable Mia Cooper, who betas more beautifully than anyone could. 
> 
> If you want to read them in chronological order:  
> [Acceptance - set in the same universe]  
> The Seventh Bar  
> Denial  
> The Second Circle  
> This Monstrous Feeling  
> [Clarity - set in the same universe]  
> He'd pity you  
> What Happens Next

 

 

The Final Note

 

It tumbles out, a reflex, jostling from her mouth as he pushes her forward. His hands tighten, momentarily on her hips, and his movements stall. It shatters the grunting of his breath, the hissing of her own.

 

'Fuck me'.

 

It hangs in the air, suspended there. It isn't new to them, but it usually steals in bathed in wine or whiskey, or pressed up against a desk with full uniforms and only moments to spare. There's a certain tone and context for it. It is the soundtrack to other moments. It belongs between gritted teeth, and in the back of her throat. It is rare. It belongs to Justin, and to the Inspector. And to Owen Paris.

 

To the faceless Cardassians. 

 

It's never made it into their bedroom. Until now.

 

She tastes the air; different, somehow heavier. The pause cracks then, as he lunges forward, takes a chunk of her hair which is spilling over her left shoulder, and wraps it in fingers she expects to be gentle. There’s jazz on in the back ground, and she wants to turn it off. She gasps, equally aroused and horrified, as he pulls her up - back flush against his chest - and changes the angle so her thighs are spread, open, across his. And she's helpless against the urgency of his movements as he pushes in and out of her. 

 

One hand in her hair, the other comes around to touch her - hard, at just the right tempo, finger circling. She groans, tosses her head back. 

 

And then she flies apart almost instantly.

 

It isn't until much later, when she climbs from their silent bed and stares at her naked form in the bathroom mirror, the Devore Imperium's stars casting her in a pale, shallow glow, that she realises he didn't come. 

 

-0-  

 

She knows what she has to do, and there is so much to be done.  But her computer remains defiantly blank, and the schedule on the diplomatic proceedings remains unread. She cannot unwind her thinking, and she cannot set her mistake of the evening before to the side.

 

She has bruises, from where he gripped her hips, those gentle fingers digging in to make purple-yellow clouds on the pale skin. When she shifts in the chair, and finds herself pressed against the metal of the handles, she winces.

 

It's been so long, and she realises she didn't miss it. 

 

She's usually a pragmatist about this sort of thing; capable of letting the door of their quarters slide shut and leaving their marriage firmly in there. She believes, as callous as it might seem, that it is because of this they remain intact.  They are happy because of this. She can command him, and mean it, because when she slides into bed he settles his warm hand just under the hem of her pyjama top and draws tiny circles on her skin like a tattoo. 

 

She cherishes it, the discretion of their union, but she's not naive enough to delude herself into thinking her desire for extreme privacy does not irk him.   

 

He sees it as a rejection. And she doesn’t have the words to explain to him that it is entirely the opposite.

 

And she can see it now. Irk isn't the right lexical choice, it's far too tame for what's happening to him as they float, waiting, in Devore space. She's only known it once before, and it's the same adversary he believes himself pitted against over a decade later that has resurrected that sparking jealousy he once felt. He has to compete for her. 

 

Or so he thinks.

 

She stares at the wedding ring - unadorned, and everything she wanted - and it is uniquely painful to acknowledge that he's never quite trusted her. That he thinks he still has to win her. 

 

The monstrous irony is he thinks she is a _prize_. 

 

He has never quite trusted her. Not even as they took vows that said they did, swore fealty she thought they already abided by.

 

But those vows don't seem to apply now, not when they are suspended in this heavy, silent space. It is dense with memories, memories which evoke others to pass across her mind. Dancing, carried away on tears and sleepless nights. Counselled by Starfleet and illicit holoprogrammes in turn. Soothed, if only on the surface, by Justin. Encouraged by Owen.

 

And those are memories she is not willing to indulge in.

 

She can't. She can't feel their breath, or their intent, or their heat, or recall Owen Paris' terrorised screams.

 

She can't, but she does. It's reflexive. 

 

And when she does, the woman she has tried for so long to banish from within her emerges. She's seeking punishment, and retribution, and the exquisite agony that sets her blood alight.

 

A collection of syndromes, she thinks to herself. What a statistic.

 

She twists her wedding ring, calls up a cup of coffee, and drinks it all almost at once. Then she listens to Debussy’s Arabesque.

 

He does not know, she deludes herself, while knowing full well that her husband knows exactly what she suffered at the hands of the Cardassians. She doesn't know how, or when he found out, but she sees it in his eyes. He can't abide Owen Paris, he speaks of his own losses at their hands like they’re mere trivialities, and his eyes darken when they talk about the past. 

 

And, the final convincing sentiment is that he never _asks_ her what happened. Not over wine, not over dinner, not as they lie in bed and the dreams assail her and she cannot return to slumber.

 

That's the biggest tell. Chakotay's infinite curiosity ends just at the moment where she wants to tell him what happened. Where she wants to say 'After a few, I stopped screaming.'

 

And when she asks him to 'fuck me' he does as she asks with a grim mouth, an executioner standing on gallows.

 

So he knows, she reasons, and that's why he touches her, sometimes, like she'll shatter into a million pieces.

 

And she needs him to know. But she does not need to discuss it with him. She cannot justify her proclivities, so she doesn't.

 

She just lets them exist. And for the most part, he does too. He indulges her, and he enjoys it, but never in the sanctity of their bed. 

 

Their bed is somewhere else. Straddling galaxies and memories, stripped of anything apart from honesty. No. Never in their bed.

 

And it was all proclivities with Kashyk. Sweating, leather-clad proclivities that she will never apologise for wanting in that moment, but will regret wanting for the rest of her life. She will regret letting him fuck her senseless because she was desperate to feel a synthetic version of what she has, now.  

 

She just needed to feel. Something, anything.

 

And the easiest thing in the world to feel is pain. So she sought that. Always. The easiest way out, the simplest method of catharsis.

 

The memory of Chakotay's kindness, as he gently healed her, comes back to her. And then he turned her away for her own good. And it was healing, in its way. 

 

That's what he's been doing these last few years; drawing out the poison long since buried by her experiences, regulations and fear, and holding her as he deems she deserves. Like a rare curio, something to be treasured.

 

But not to be trusted. 

 

She can't think on this anymore, because it's making tears gather, thinning her resolve. So she goes back to work, because there she is in control of everything she needs to be. 

 

-0- 

 

The tension courses; fleeting glances, the flexing of boxer's hands on the pristine linen, the smug inflections of an accent she once found rather alluring. 

 

And Kashyk is a real bastard to him. He needles him with clever language, still underestimating her husband’s savvy.

 

Every ounce of her wants to humiliate the Ambassador right here, and she wishes, even for a second, that she'd worn her wedding ring. But she will not let the frayed, damaged past and the essentially perfect present collide. She will not be the spectator, or the referee, of this fight.

 

It is the mistrust - the dark tinged with green, glinting with tampered fury - in his eyes, when she asks him to leave, which feels like real pain for the first time in many years. 

 

But he goes, and she needs him to. She needs to be alone for this, and she needs to do this alone.

 

She needs to put this to rest, wrap the corpse of this in its shroud and consign it to oblivion. And she needs to be explicit about him. About why he is all she has ever needed, though she didn't always realise it.

 

Kashyk's scent is the same; alien leather, expensive cologne. She's terrified it will stick to her skin, crawl into her pores, like it did the last time. She almost stops breathing as he takes her in his arms to dance. It's similar to a waltz, so hardly challenging, and she has to concentrate on the bizarre art relief on the wall behind his head, as they spin, to ensure she doesn't flee.

 

"I was giving your Commander Chak -"

 

"Captain Chakotay," she corrects lightly. "All our titles have changed. Even yours, _Ambassador_."

 

He nods, grins that sharp grin, and she remembers his teeth sinking into her flesh, and she is beset with something akin to terror. 

 

"How true Admiral! Though yours most specifically," he whirls them to a stop as the music closes, and then offers his arm and motions to the doors where they are to sign the treaty. "I understand human women tend to take their husband's name on the event of their marriage. So, it would seem, you've had _two_ changes of title."

 

She gives him a sideways glance, and she has to admire his guile and gamble. There is no way Chakotay told him, so it's a clever guess. And a correct one.

 

"It's easier for me to remain Admiral Janeway," she says, and it's true. It's much more practical, given the delicate intricacies of Chakotay's tribal traditions, to simply retain her name. And it's easier as an Admiral.

 

For the first time, though, she feels cheated by their mutual decision. She would feel safer if she’d taken his name.

 

"You see," Kashyk tightens his arm, locking hers within, and then he clasps her hands in his chilly one. She suddenly feels under threat, but defies her own desire to cast her eyes back for her security detail, who she knows are following behind her. “The implication there, of course, is that you aren’t fully invested in your…decision.”

 

She flexes her fingers in his grip, and he can only loosen them to prevent a scene.

 

He leans towards her, “I know you Kathryn. Don’t forget that.”

 

“How could I?”

 

They continue towards the dais, where the table is set out with the final treaties. She has no intention of setting pen to paper.

 

She won’t sell herself to the greater good any more. She’s learned, in the interim, to value herself too.

 

There is a music in the background. It must be Devoran.

 

“We aren’t going to come to an agreement, are we?” He asks, as the doors close behind them.

 

Her security team are on the other side, and the silence now feels vast and oppressive.

 

“No, we’re not.” She runs her fingers over the rich vellum of the un-inked paper, and it grounds her. “We are never going to see eye to eye.”

 

“A pity really.” He shrugs, leans forward so his breath invades her space. She resists the urge to recoil. “We shared so much more than that.”

 

She laughs softly, “Kashyk, that seems to be what you think. I want you to be under no illusion, Ambassador.” She pauses, watches as his face begins to darken. “You might have used me, but I got exactly what I wanted from you.”

 

His grin curdles into a grimace. But he holds his own.

 

“At what cost?”

 

“Not one I couldn’t recoup,” she assures, perching on the edge of the desk. “Believe me. It would be a lie for me to say you meant nothing, and for a moment you meant something – before you lifted the veil. But _my husband_ , he’s everything.”

 

She enjoys the irritation on his face. It isn’t hurt, he feels, at least not of the romantic kind. No, he’s lost the game. And Kashyk despises losing, more than he despises anything. Everything is a game for him, a calculation, a ploy.

 

And he’s met his match in a woman he once fucked mercilessly in front of his troops  and screwed. And thought he bettered.

 

That must hurt.

 

“He wasn’t everything when I bent you over your Ready Room desk. I still listen to Rachmaninov,” he pretends to examine his pristine nails.

 

She hears the bars of music in her own head.

 

She leans into him, and smiles softly. “Fuck you.”

 

Then she turns and begins to leave.

 

“You are  damned Admiral Janeway,” he cries, voice lilting over the rage which acts as a bass note.

 

She doesn’t turn around, contentedness lightening her stride as she goes towards the door.

 

“You’ll regret this,” he says. “I promise you.”

 

But she isn’t listening. Her mind is already back in their bed, her ring on her finger, his hands gentle on her body.

 

**-0-**

The low light of their quarters doesn’t hide the grazes, the glistening blood, and the bruises on his knuckles. His hand is so tightly clasped that it’s whitening his knuckles. She examines the bowl on the nightstand – an old button, lip balm, no wedding ring.

 

She watches him sleep, chest rising and falling, mouth set in a grim line. The lines of his tattoo are obscured by his own frown, and it warps the pattern she so loves.

 

She slides off the dress uniform, strips down to her underwear, then rustles quietly in the bathroom for the regenerator she took as a perk of captaincy all those years ago, and just updates when she sweet talks whoever is in charge of Medical in her fleet.

 

He’s so exhausted from his fight with the bag – and himself – that he doesn’t even stir when the soft thrum of the regenerator begins over his skin, soothing the grazes and discolouration away. She shuffles her knees up against his side, takes his hands in hers to ensure the regenerator does its job properly. When it’s done, she sets it aside on the night stand, leaning across him to put it there, then shirks her own underwear and lies flush against him.

 

She wants to feel every honest inch of him, every centimetre of his perfectly warm skin. She settles her face in the crook of his neck, breathes in the earthly scent of sweat that he always brings back from exercise.  The smell of him after they make love.

 

She wants to make love to him. She wants to feel his gentle hands on her, his gentle mouth.

 

The gentleness of infinite strength.

 

She wants to tell him he is enough, he will always be enough. That everything that has gone before is so much easier because he takes her in his arms, whispers into her hair that everything will be okay.

 

One day she will tell him what she has seen, what she has done.

 

What was done to her.

 

She will tell him they put the ice in her eyes and the iron in her jaw.

 

But not here, because here she is safe. And because he knows, and yet he loves her for it anyway.

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Encore](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11200020) by [katesfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katesfire/pseuds/katesfire)




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